The High Temple of Light in Estairn was a monumental complex of buildings. Besides the main temple, it also had buildings that housed dozens of priests who preached to the public, an academy that taught clerics, and the largest chapter house of templars in the Aleshat Kingdom.
In this chapter house was also the office of Praetor Bosnor. It was there that he was currently speaking with a visitor.
Bosnor considered himself a courageous man. In his four decades of serving the Light, he had seen a lot, but his guest still made him uneasy. Before he knew this old man, Bosnor thought that the nickname "the Evil Eye" was given to Inquisitor Redain Garron because his right eye was white and blind from a scar that bisected it.
In reality, it was because the gaze of Garron's other eye could make a person remember their every real and imaginable sin.
"You must take action now, Praetor. The sooner you act, the smaller the price we all will pay. Each day counts," Garron urged. "The call for help was already too late because of the local justicar's ineptitude. The latest reports I got are not simply alarming anymore…"
Bosnor shifted in his seat.
There was a decanter of wine near him and two glasses. Usually, Bosnor offered some for his guests, even if they came for business—but in front of Garron, this felt like a sin of indulgence instead of a way to make the conversation flow more smoothly.
'Damn it! He's my subordinate, not the other way around, even if he was sent here by High Precept himself. I must remember that!' Bosnor thought.
"The reports—from that Chaplain, what-was-his-name?.. I got a letter from him, too. But I also got a report that Count Arstain has decided to interfere already."
"Then your reports are too slow. Count Arstain ran away from the necromancer with his pants stained brown, and Justicar Esvan is dead. Or, more likely, undead. The man we are dealing with is probably the most serious threat to humanity since Ke'Arinua the Seamstress thirty years ago."
Bosnor swallowed nervously.
This was an infamous story that happened in the neighboring Lestonia Kingdom. A mad dark elf was forced to flee her kin's underground empire because of using necromancy to make flesh abominations. It took an entire army to defeat her legions, and Garron had lost his eye chasing and fighting the elf herself.
"Are you implying that this necromancer is also a third rank mage, Inquisitor? If he amassed so many undead so quickly…"
Spells of the third rank could raise a hundred undead at once. With enough materials, a necromancer could create an army in days. A cleric of third rank also might be able to turn a hundred undead with a single spell—but he would run out of mana before a necromancer's army was destroyed.
It would take a cleric of even higher rank to destroy a necromancer's army with minimal support—but those were even rarer.
The most powerful cleric in the Church was the High Magister himself, who could cast the spells of fifth rank. But the most powerful cleric in Aleshat was only fourth rank… and was sitting in front of Bosnor.
"Not necessary. He might be a second rank—perhaps somewhere in between. But are you willing to bet the well-being of Aleshat on a chance that the necromancer was lucky, or was given too much time to amass servants?" Garron said. "Ordinary servants will have trouble fighting the undead. They need the support of clerics and templars."
Garron was a fourth rank Light mage, able to cast spells that affected hundreds of people at once. However, he was also 63 years old and walked around with a cane. His years of glory were long past, and he only oversaw various agents of the Inquisition.
"So you must gather forces NOW, Praetor. The only way to defeat a necromancer of this strength is to gather an overwhelming force, and the larger it is, the better. It doesn't matter how excessive or expensive it is. Anything that doesn't kill necromancers immediately only makes them stronger."
Bosnor winced.
"You say it, like it's easy to gather so many garrisons together… Not to mention, you must know the whining that nobles will start if they think the Church tries to interfere with their rule! It's politics, Inquisitor. I will do what I can, of course—but not without pouring some grease on its wheels."
Garron scowled, and his mane of gray hair made him look like a witch himself.
"Trust me, I know. In fact, just before this visit, I had an audience with the king. He said that he can't simply send his standing army, or even mercenaries, to Count Arstain's lands. 'It would be seen as an attempt to usurp the count's title,' he said. But I know who will be grabbing this earth if nothing is done."
"I realize the gravity of the situation, Inquisitor!" Bosnor flailed his hands in frustration. "The Light is supreme and sublime, but I am just a mortal man. If only the heavens sent us some of their angels…"
Garron scoffed and stood up heavily.
"Very well, then. I trust that you will do everything in your mortal power, Praetor Bosnor. In the meantime, I will do what is within my own power to stop this threat. Chaplain Lodimar believes in the power of Inquisition, and I don't want to disappoint even such a small servant of the Light's glory."
When he slowly walked out, punctuating every step with his cane, Bosnor let out a sigh of relief and poured himself a glass of wine, then immediately downed it.
Next, he took a stack of clean paper sheets from his desk. He planned to do everything in his mortal power to gather templar forces as soon as possible, and this meant writing a lot of letters.
The temple's aviary would get a lot emptier after today.